Chapter 22 — Departures and Deliveries
They flew in silence for a long while.
Below them stretched a world finally remembering itself. Villages were dusted in silver, rivers gleaming like ribbons, clouds fat with snow. The sleigh hummed on leftover magic, its rails whispering against thin air. Every so often the coal’s glow dimmed, then brightened again, syncing with their hope.
“Any particular route?” Dax asked.
Chuck shrugged. “Whichever way needs it most.”
I cleared my throat. “You’re planning to distribute intangible emotional restoration across the entire planet with zero logistical infrastructure.”
“Exactly.”
“You’re aware how insane that sounds?”
“Absolutely.”
“Splendid,” I muttered. “Just confirming my next memoir has a plot.”
The sleigh angled downward through a soft curtain of snowfall. Below, a lonely cottage waited, its single candle flickering in the window like it had been holding its breath for centuries.
The coal pulsed.
Chuck nodded toward it. “That one.”
He guided the sleigh lower until we hovered just above the roof. From the pocket of his coat he drew a sliver of glow…light so small it looked like it might apologize for existing.
He flicked it toward the chimney.
For a heartbeat, nothing.
Then the candle inside flared—bright, sure, unafraid.
“You gave them—” I started.
“Faith,” Chuck said. “The real kind.”
We moved on.
Village to village. Roof to roof. Each spark reignited something…tiny, human, sacred.
In one town, laughter burst from a marketplace half-buried in snow.
In another, a man dropped his weapon, helped his rival stand, and neither spoke.
And somewhere near the mountains, a single child set a new candle in the window, whispering thanks to no one in particular.
Everywhere we passed, the world brightened by degrees.
But halfway through our flight, the coal dimmed. The sleigh lurched.
Dax grabbed the reins. “We’re losing altitude!”
“It’s running out,” Chuck shouted. “Belief’s thinning!”
Snow and starlight blurred together as the aurora above us flickered, heartbeat stuttering.
“We need a renewal source!” I yelled.
“Like what?” Dax hollered.
“Like someone still believing in the story!” I hollered back.
The sleigh bucked, dropping faster. My hat flew off. Dax swore in at least three languages.
Then…somewhere below…a single candle reignited.
A small window.
A child’s hand pressed to the glass.
Eyes closed, lips moving in silent promise.
And just like that, the coal pulsed again.
The sleigh steadied.
The aurora flared, brilliant and vast, painting the northern sky in living gold. The runners sang. The air filled with the scent of pine, and for an instant, I swear I heard Gwen’s laughter in the wind.
Chuck exhaled a sound halfway between relief and prayer. “See? It only takes one.”
Dax grinned. “One what?”
“One person who still believes the giving matters.” Then he coughed. “I think I soiled myself.”
He steered us higher, following the ripple of light spreading beneath us…tiny sparks leaping from window to window, house to house, heart to heart. The whole world answering one small candle.
“Note to self,” I muttered, fumbling for my quill. “Publish serialized miracle, December 25th. Subtitle: Miracles and Their Union Rules.”
Dax snorted. “Make sure I get royalties.”
“You’ll get credit as comic relief.”
“That’s all I ever get,” he said, but he was smiling.
The reindeer…no longer spectral, no longer constructs…shimmered into full form, coats sleek with frostlight, eyes alive with mischief. They tossed their antlers and the bells on their harnesses rang true for the first time in centuries.
“Look at them,” I whispered. “Even the myths remember.”
Chuck tilted his head toward the coal. “They’re not myths. They’re witnesses.”
We banked south over a coastline rimmed with pale ice. The ocean below reflected the aurora, gold and green tangled together until it looked like the sea itself was learning to glow.
In one fishing village, a man stepped from his boat and saw us pass. Instead of pointing, he took off his hat and bowed.
Dax blinked. “You think he knows who we are?”
“Maybe it doesn’t matter,” Chuck said. “Maybe it’s enough that he believes what we’re doing’s real.”
I couldn’t argue. The coal warmed brighter. The sleigh rose higher.
Soon the horizon ahead melted into morning.
Chuck leaned back, gaze distant. “Your turn, love,” he whispered. “I’ll finish the route.”
The coal answered with a steady glow…no flare this time, just a promise.
“Where to next?” Dax asked.
“Home,” Chuck said.
“Which one?”
“All of them.”
He turned the sleigh toward Elämä, and the world below shimmered in response—candles and hearths flickering awake one by one, constellations on earth.
The aurora followed us, its colors softening to dawn. For once, even the wind didn’t rush. It simply moved in time with the sleigh’s heartbeat.
I wrote while they flew, hands shaking from the cold and something bigger. Entry: The miracle redistributes itself. One spark, multiplied by gratitude. Hypothesis confirmed—faith is contagious when unforced.
Chuck looked back. “You still writing?”
“Always.”
Dax groaned. “He’ll publish this and call it nonfiction.”
I grinned. “Only because it is.”
The sleigh streaked through the sky like a comet that remembered where it belonged.
And far below, the first true morning of a forgiven world began.
